


Somewhat Solid Ground

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Tumblr: exchangelock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had hoped that John helping to decorate the flat for Christmas was one step closer to them getting back to "normal". Now, in trying for humor, he may have screwed things up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhat Solid Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katedev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedev/gifts).



> Written for the Exchangelock Holiday Exchange, this gift fic is for katedev, who asked for a fic based on the Christmas song "Let There Be Peace On Earth".
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta, Batik, for her sharp eye and constructive feedback. Her insight was invaluable.

"You wanted your flat decorated for the holidays, the least you could do is help with hanging the high stuff," John complained as he stood precariously balanced on the chair, trying to hang the strand of fairy lights and garland along the top of one window.

Sherlock admired the view for a moment before replying.

"I am helping. I'm providing the music," and continued to pace the floor as he played another carol on his violin.

"Ugh!" John turned his head and glared at Sherlock.

"Not that one. Pick another. ‘Carol of the Bells’ or something!"

"I wasn't aware you were against peace on earth." Sherlock contemplated aloud as he halted in place, his bow still in position but now silent. "Not ‘Carol of the Bells’; this is a violin, after all."

"I was a soldier, my sister is a drunk, my father used to 'beat the sense into us', I run around London chasing murderers and thieves with the world's biggest git a la world’s only consulting detective, and I've seen my fair share of bar brawls over nothing. So, no. I don't believe in peace on earth," John huffed as he tried again to reach the top of the window.

"True," Sherlock replied. "Besides, if peace on earth ever were a thing, the global economy would come crashing down due to loss of income and jobs. Whatever would Mycroft do if he couldn't help avoid conflict or incite it in various countries?"

John chuckled.

"Alright, maestro. Since that's going to be your contribution, music please."

Sherlock thought for a moment and started another piece, choosing one that would best fit the violin. The lovely tones of “Greensleeves” emerged from the strings.

"That's a bit slow, don't you think?" John said over his shoulder.

"Well, if you fall to your demise from that great height, a slow tune would be best, don't you think?" Sherlock said without thinking.

John froze, arm in midair.

"Sherlock --"

Sherlock looked up to see John -- his face an odd shade of grey -- looking down at him, and the realization of just what he'd said hit him. He managed to set aside his violin, just in time to help John stumble down off the chair and sit in it.

Dammit! How could he have been so thoughtless? John had made him realize, over time, that Sherlock's fake death had been a very real thing to John and, even though he never said anything about them, Sherlock believed John still had nightmares about it. There were days when John would show evidence of too little sleep and have a shorter temper with Sherlock than was the norm, a tremor in his hand so slight that only Sherlock would notice. They were back on somewhat solid ground again -- John offering to help decorate 221B was nothing if not proof of that -- and Sherlock had gone and possibly ruined it again.

He knelt there in front of John, trying to help soothe him through his panic attack. Sherlock was not one for intimate touches. But for John he would make the exception when it was needed. And, in times like this, it was. Soothing touches on his arms, thumbs making small circles on his wrists, reminding John that Sherlock was there, staying in John's eyesight as he retrieved the blanket from the back of John's chair, whatever it took to help John come back from his attack.

Minutes later, John's breathing slowed as he came back to the present.

"I … I think I'm done here for now, Sherlock." John rose and stumbled to get his coat.

"John," Sherlock said, approaching him carefully. "I don't think you should go anywhere just yet. Please stay."

John looked down at his still shaking hands. Sherlock could see the pulse racing in his neck and recognized the moment when the doctor in John won out over his bullheadedness

"Okay," he said, resigned. He took his place in his chair in front of the fireplace, not looking at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John. I wasn't thinking," Sherlock said softly as he crossed the room and sat across from John.

"I know, on both counts," John said, defeated. "I'm so tired of this."

"I'm trying, John. And you're still seeing Ella. It will get better." Sherlock tried to sound hopeful, but knew his words lacked conviction.

"It's not that even, Sherlock. I'm so tired of all of _this._ " John waved his hand at Sherlock and around the room. "I'm so tired of us just trying to be who we were before, when we both know we're not the same men we were. I'm tired of going through the motions, pretending we can make this work when every day it gets harder."

John closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

"I don't know what to do to fix it."

Sherlock's heart felt like it stuttered to a stop. He had hoped one day that John might move back into the flat, but he had made himself be content with whatever he could have. Now it sounded very much as if John no longer wanted even that.

"We don't need to be fixed," was all he could think to say.

John smiled sadly at him.

"You don't think so?” John challenged. “What am I … who am I to you?"

Sherlock's mind spun, numerous thoughts bubbling to the surface. John was the person who mattered most, the one for whom he'd done everything. He was the one Sherlock wanted to curl around to see how they fit together. He was the first person Sherlock looked for when he entered a room. John was the reason Sherlock's heart swelled when he finally saw him. He was important, as vital to Sherlock as the air in his lungs (and, occasionally, just as boring, but that was _John boring_ , which wasn’t boring at all). John kept him grounded, kept him sane, provided a reason for smiling when there shouldn't be one. He helped calm his mind so Sherlock could sort through all the noise and find whatever it was he was looking for, even if Sherlock didn't know what _it_ was. John was … everything.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked as John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"You're my friend," was what he said instead of saying everything else in his head.

John sighed.

"Is that all?"

Shouldn't that be enough, isn't that what John had wanted to hear?

"You're my colleague, my partner, if you will, vital to the Work and to me." Sherlock hoped that would suffice.

"Vital to you _how_?"

John leaned forward, a look in his eyes that Sherlock couldn't quite place.

Sherlock mirrored John’s position. He would be treading into perilous waters, but he could give John a vague enough answer, Sherlock hoped, to satisfy him yet keep himself from drowning.

"You help me focus. You may not always know the answer, but you help me find a way to one. You help with the warring thoughts and facts in my brain, help to sort out the pieces I need. I am better with you than I was trying to do this on my own."

"So, I'm vital to the Work, is what you're saying?" John asked shakily.

"Yes, that, too," Sherlock said.

"Too? Sherlock, I'm confused and you're not making any sense. This is what I mean by not knowing how to fix this. Because ..." John took a deep breath in and let it out sharply as he looked into the fire. "You're more than that to me."

With the exception of the fire crackling in the grate, it was silent in the flat as Sherlock tried to absorb John’s words.

"What am I then, to you?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Christ." John rubbed his temple. "I'm not good with words, Sherlock. You know that. I was hoping you'd figure it out … and I'd hoped you felt the same. But I never can tell with you!"

The reality of what John was trying to say finally sank in.

"Oh. Oh!" Sherlock blurted out. John nodded.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Let me try this again then, and you tell me if this is what you meant.”

John turned his gaze back on Sherlock, dark blue eyes hopeful.

“John Watson, you are the single most amazing and incredible human being I have ever met. You have shown me time and again what it means to be loyal and devoted -- I have learned from the best in that department. You are the reason I came back. You are the reason I stayed alive while I was gone. I needed to make it back to you. There are days when I wonder what I must have done to be so fortunate as to have you in my life, because I know there aren't that many, if any, things I've done for which _you_ should be my reward. I am privileged that you are my friend, but I would be lying if I said my thoughts towards you have not strayed further. I have often wondered what it would be like to fall asleep next to you, what you must look like in your first moments of waking. To know what your lips taste like and what your bare skin feels like under my fingers. I have hoped to have the pleasure of someday finding out these things, but I was unsure if my desires were reciprocated."

He finished and waited, his clasped fingers clenching nervously as he kept his eyes locked on John’s

John’s response was immediate and wordless. In an instant, he’d bridged the small space between them, pushing Sherlock back into his chair. John straddled Sherlock’s lap, looming over him as he took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him. John’s lips were firm and insistent, his mouth warm and desperate. Sherlock grabbed John’s waist, bringing John down to his level, and returned the hungry kiss with his own fervor. Sherlock nipped at John’s lower lip, causing him to moan into the air between them. John took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue darting between Sherlock’s parted lips. Sherlock couldn’t help himself as his hips rose to meet John’s. John’s moan as their clothed erections met, causing Sherlock to gasp in response. They broke apart, gasping, hungry for air.

"How long?" Sherlock panted.

"How long what?" John asked, equally out of breath.

"How long have you felt that way?"

John paused, his forehead resting against Sherlock's, his eyes closed. Sherlock waited, unmoving, hoping for an answer but knowing if he moved now, he wouldn't get one.

"Since before you jumped, but it took you jumping for me to realize it,"John said in almost a whisper, his eyes still closed.

"I must admit to a similar experience," Sherlock replied.

John chuckled half-heartedly and opened his eyes.

"Well, we are two of the biggest idiots to walk the face of this planet then,” he said. “The next time either of us has something big to figure out, let's not one of us jump off a building to do so."

"Agreed," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Now what?" John asked, the look on his face saying he hoped he knew what the answer was.

"Now I take you to bed and finally find out what you look like when you fall asleep thoroughly 'shagged', as they put it," Sherlock said with an impish grin.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
Snow falls soft and silent against the window panes. The only sounds in the flat are the soft crackle of the fire, the gentle rush of wind as it occasionally hurries the snowflakes along their path, and the occasional creaks of an old building adjusting to the weather. The flat is dark with the exception of the string of fairy lights dangling haphazardly from one window and the soft glow of the fire. On the floor there are discarded bits of clothing; a jacket and jumper thrown over the sofa, shirts rumpled on the floor, shoes somehow under the table, and trousers, jeans, and socks litter the hallway. The door to Sherlock’s bedroom is slightly ajar. Inside, the bed contains two bodies in peaceful slumber, oblivious to the rest of the world. John faces the door; Sherlock is curled up behind him his arm over John’s heart, John’s own fingers loosely entwined with his. And while there might not be peace on earth, there is -- finally -- peace inside 221B Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the song Sherlock was playing initially was "Let There Be Peace On Earth". This was where the Muse took me with the prompt.


End file.
